


Tessellate

by loghain



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asphyxiation, Blood and Gore, Breathplay, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Manipulative Relationship, Mildly Dubious Consent, Trash shitheads dating, dubious everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2014-04-12
Packaged: 2018-01-15 00:06:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 6,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1283845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loghain/pseuds/loghain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Bite chunks out of me / You're a shark and I'm swimming</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Vignettes of Chilton and Hannibal's relationship during Will's incarceration.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [嵌花](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1833568) by [micorom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/micorom/pseuds/micorom)



Hannibal becomes a fixture in Chilton’s life at a most fortuitous crossroads: at the precise moment that Chilton becomes frustrated with the restrains of his recovery and the lack of progress regarding one Will Graham, Hannibal steps up, and Chilton finds himself genuinely interested in another human being for the first time in a long while.

“You know the last time I went on a date,” Chilton says, and he grasps the stem of his wine glass in his fingers delicately as if it would somehow assist his point, “she ended up paying the cheque because she wanted me to leave. Which was fine by me. Terribly dull woman.”

Hannibal picks up their next bottle of wine, turning it thoughtfully in his hands. “And I hope this is the story of how you realised that match making websites are a scam.”

“Well,” Chilton considers, eyeing the slant of Hannibal’s jaw. “It is and it isn’t. I already knew they were a scam, but I had gone to the trouble of making an account and figured I may as well try using it.”

“You and I, Frederick, are unlike many others.” Hannibal smiled as he topped up their glasses. “Those algorithms don’t work on us. We simply do not fit into their way of rationalising human emotion.” His voice became dry, deftly humorous: “Of course additionally, you don’t seem to like many people at all.”

It was bait wrapped in a cotton barb. Chilton took the hook and pulled under the line and sinker. “I like you,” he answered wryly.

Hannibal seemed satisfied with that, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I would hope so.”


	2. Chapter 2

Chilton was too drunk to place how this came about; he had too much alcohol in his system for a man with seventy stitches and no good judgement, but Hannibal’s mouth was warm and fever-sweet against his own, so he went along with it.

Went along with the way he had to stretch himself up at the same time that Hannibal curved downwards, and inhaled like it would be his last breath when Hannibal pulled Chilton’s shirt-tails out and ran a hand up and under against soft flesh. His fingers raked over the stitches to make Chilton lean back and exhale with a shudder, feeling the wounded animal in the grasp of a predator.

"Frederick," Hannibal said then, taking the curve of Chilton’s jaw in his hand and kissing him again until the moment passed. Hannibal assured him he was not a monster. Said, "I'm not going to harm you."

He got a thrill out of doing this here. In Hannibal’s kitchen. Christ, the man made food here. He’d made their dinner here, and now the edge of a counter was making a line in Chilton’s back and his pants were undone, Hannibal wrapping those musical artistic genius surgical precise fingers around the length of his cock, making him groan and press his own, blunter fingers into the curves of Hannibal’s shoulders for support.

Hannibal bid him turn around after a while, so chilton had his fingers gripping the counter edge instead, and when the line of Hannibal’s body pressed all up and over his, Chilton kept thinking and wishing, a litany of “Yeah, fuck me like this” between groans but it never happened. He just rocked back against the hard, insistent press of Hannibal’s cock against his backside with each steady stroke of his fingers, and barely noticed when Hannibal’s spare hand was pressed up against his stomach again, fingers working over the bumpy knots of his stitches.

Chilton was impressed when Hannibal finally made a sound; a low, appreciative groaning that shot straight down his spine. He was so wrapped up in it that the painful popping sensation was like a slow wave rather than an immediate tsunami; when it came to him he cried out, staggering, looking down where red was weeping where his shirt touched his skin. He babbled, frantic.

"Hannibal," he said. "I’m bleeding I - my stitches - " but he never once told Hannibal to stop touching him, and Hannibal never seemed to consider it. By the time that Chilton came he was crying a little bit, wetness under his eyes from the sharp, heady mix of pain and pleasure, and the dizziness that he knew was surprise and not blood loss. The hand under his shirt pressed up hard against his split wounds, pulling Chilton bodily back against Hannibal: the sharp grunt in Chilton’s ear and the satisfied sigh told him that Hannibal came too.

Then it was all pain, whimpering and trying to hold up his weight at the counter, and Hannibal gently turned Chilton back around, inspecting him as he had before. “I apologise,” and his voice was kind of sultry, hard at the edges with the breathlessness of sex. “I was too vigorous. But you will be alright, frederick,” he insisted, and Chilton believed him somehow. “We should get you to a doctor at any rate.”

And Chilton never questioned him.


	3. Chapter 3

Since Will won't talk to him, Chilton has to watch him. He spent no small amount of money ensuring a way that he could get the silent CCTV cameras hooked up so that he could watch them through his laptop screen; and of course, he had a microphone down there too, to record Will's conversations.

He's watching Will when Hannibal drops by to take him out for lunch, but Chilton is too annoyed by Will's constant silence - the way he just kinda does nothing. The elder doctor circles around to the back of Chilton's chair, leaning down with his head over Chilton's shoulder. "Are you not bored of watching him yet?"

Chilton glances sidelong at Hannibal. "He's fascinating." The remark was somewhere between droll and truthful, and then as Chilton was thinking up a cutting remark about how he had nothing better to do at the hospital anyway, Hannibal says, "You're right. I of all people know that" and then put his mouth to Chilton's throat, a kiss, stealing the breath out of him as he inhales.

"He still," Chilton starts, taking a pause to lean his head back as Hannibal's mouth works against his skin, "refuses to talk to me - "

"I think I put him off," Hannibal murmurs, his voice humming and distorting in way that made Chilton close his eyes, "psychiatrists. He only talks to Alana Bloom because he cares about her."

"A pure psychopath in love with a psychiatrist," Chilton's speech hitches and stops as Hannibal moves a hand down to palm against his crotch. He grips the arms of his chair and turns his head to kiss Hannibal, first finishing his sentence, "That's a good joke. Should make that a movie."

Hannibal laughs mutely as he rolls the heel of his palm against Chilton's cock. He looks to the little screen, to the cameras on Will's cell, where his favourite not-patient resided, sat with his back pressed against the wall and his hands loosely curled around each other. To Chilton he said, "I remember the appointment where he first told me how he liking killing Garrett Jacob Hobbs. I should have sensed something then."

Chilton's voice was getting hazy, the way it always did when Hannibal touched him; Hannibal was not over fond of much about the man, but he liked that. It was hard not to appreciate the way he could intoxicate someone with nothing more than arousal. "No one knew just how dangerous he really was," he groaned when Hannibal squeezed, just enough pressure to be interesting, "how deranged..."

"So quietly calculating," Hannibal agreed, kissing Chilton's pulse and watching as Will stood up, pacing the cubic metres of his cell. He wished he could see Will in one of the padded cells. A far more elegant caging for such a beast. He flicked open the button on Chilton's pants, drawing down the zipper and fantasised about doing this to the prisoner.

He would much rather have Will debased for him like this, groaning and arching up for Hannibal to touch him. They'd come so close. It was a shame so many arrows had pointed in Hannibal's direction, a shame he had to turn his project into a scapegoat. He'd wanted to open up Will's brain beautifully.

Instead there was this. He imagined sucking a mark under the knot in Will's throat, imagined Will's wiry hands grabbing at Hannibal, the small, desperate noises he could make. His chest would rise and fall heavily in the same way that Chilton's did now, muscles tensing and relaxing as his pulse rose.

On the laptop screen, Will turns and looks up at the camera. There was no possible way for him to know Hannibal was there, but looking at him like that raises the pressure, sends the sound of blood roaring in his ears, and Hannibal scrapes his teeth against Chilton's throat and works his hand swifter, firmer over his cock. Chilton moans, shuddering and too-loud; Hannibal doesn't worry about anyone coming in, too focused on watching as Will turns away, folding his arms and walking slowly around his cell.

"Hannibal," Chilton was panting, and he kept repeating his name in breathy gasps as he came. Hannibal kissed across the expanse of his throat and jaw, stroking him through it; and all the while he just watched Will, walking around on the screen, so small and yet wholly significant. 

Chilton makes a derisive noise once he got his breath back, finding tissues that he cleans himself up with and hands to Hannibal. He eyes Hannibal with a surprising hunger, and Hannibal barely registers it, even as Chilton sweeps a look over him, going pointedly upwards from his hard-on to meet his eyes. "I don't suppose you'd mind if we went to my house."

Hannibal reluctantly tore his eyes off the screen. He'd rather fuck Chilton here, with the psuedo eye contact with Will and the richest thoughts whilst watching him in his cell. Unfortunately some fantasies were just that. He smiled, wiping come off his fingers as he did. "Of course not."


	4. Chapter 4

Chilton is a prideful creature. Willful but weak; in his way he’s like a malnourished lion, too pathetic to win but not yet ready to cow to his betters. So Hannibal is proud that he’s taken Chilton down to this level, working fingers under his skin and through his mind until Chilton is at this point: this point being willingly kneeling, knees blooming bruises, top button undone, tie pulled off, eyes heavy lidded and breathing loud and his lips are bright red, stretched wet and shiny where they’re wrapped around Hannibal’s cock.

He moans around a mouthful and Hannibal is compelled to inhale sharply, appreciative of the banquet of sights and sounds and smells in front of him; he knows Chilton is hard, desperation rolling off him in little waves with each long exhale through his nose. He’s no real specimen of man but Chilton is so  _fine_ in moments like these, a red flush in his cheeks (embarrassed, always embarrassed, in a stubborn, hateful way) as he pushes his mouth down, tongue pressing insistently at the underside of Hannibal’s cock. He was a complete mass of contradictions, wanting this but hating the subjugation inherent in getting on one’s knees; he felt the same about being fucked, too, but somehow always let Hannibal do that.

He never vocalised it - never had to. Chilton may as well be transparent. Hannibal thought it the most amusing proof that Gideon wasn’t the Ripper, and that Hannibal was: that he could see Chilton's insides without having to open him up.

Hannibal draws out the suffering, so to speak, measures his breathing so that Chilton has to work harder, take him deeper to draw noises out of him; rewards him with them every now and then, and sees the subsequent shake of the doctor’s hands, where-ever they’re placed in that moment - on his cock, against his thigh, down between his own legs to try and alleviate the pressure.

Hannibal makes a point of not helping Chilton out. He threads his fingers in Chilton’s short hair and encourages him to take more into his mouth; his hair had looked better longer, Hannibal thought, but short like this, it draws swifter, sharper responses if he pulls it. To get a hold on it, he has to naturally hold it harder. In the strangest way, it gives him more control, and Hannibal loves exerting every ounce of control over Chilton that he can; in some ways he does it subtly, like changing the air pressure so slowly so that Chilton doesn’t notice.

Hannibal warns Chilton when he’s going to come - that’s courteous, after all - with a soft, “Frederick” and he lets him pull his mouth off, gets off on the deep, gulping inhales as Chilton catches his breath through his mouth instead of his nose; he comes on his face with a shallow groan, striping his cheeks and beard and mouth with white.

It would be more dignified if Chilton would swallow it; but dignity is the opposite of what Hannibal has been going for with this. He instructs Chilton and doesn’t let him rise, encourages him to get off like this, and feels the strangest spike of pride when Chilton comes, pathetically jerking himself off and moaning with his forehead pressed against Hannibal’s thigh.


	5. Chapter 5

Will’s trial is a slow burner. Chilton complains about it, sometimes, remarks on the effort involved in constantly hauling Will to-and-fro, and brings up the bits where he has to always make sure the straps on his mask are tight enough because the useless uniforms never do it properly. He says, “if it doesn’t leave a little bit of a mark when it comes off, it wasn’t tight enough.” He follows it up with something about how after Gideon’s escape and Will’s previous escape, measures have to be so strict with these psychopaths, can’t afford any slips, but Hannibal can’t hear him; he’s too busy thinking about the way Will’s breath fogs up his mask.

The imagery stirs his blood, serves as the impetus for Hannibal to put his hand on Chilton’s shins, getting his attention with the little gesture. He raises his eyebrows at Hannibal over the rims of his ridiculous reading glasses and closes his book. Hannibal had a feeling Chilton was never really reading it anyway; he was just staring at the pages whilst venting about his day. His legs were crossed at the ankles and stretched out across Hannibal’s lap, in the odd, affectionate manner that he’d developed slowly over each night that he’d stayed at Hannibal’s. In this manner Hannibal found him to be quite like a cat: slowly creeping closer the more comfortable he got. Hannibal did not like cats.

He’s thinking about Chilton tugging tightly, likely too tightly; he was not above spite. He would be thrilled to see the discomfort it would cause Will. So would Hannibal, but for different reasons; he reaches over and takes the book out of Chilton’s hand, gently dropping it to the floor beside the long couch, and he twists his body so he can kiss him deeply. His glasses get skewed almost immediately, so Hannibal drops those by the book too, drawing Chilton in by kissing against his jaw; he’s been growing his beard back out, and it scratches against Hannibal’s skin, which is not an entirely unpleasant sensation. 

Chilton kisses the same way he does everything else, the same way he is: the word would be uncouth, the way he is hungry to accept and search for more, how his breathing gets all uneven, heart pounding under Hannibal’s hand. The angle wasn’t flattering or simple for either of them, but Chilton was resourceful if nothing else, and soon moved, twisting himself around until Hannibal was poised between his knees. The intent was obvious, always is; Chilton is malleable the moment Hannibal has him in his hands, constantly wanting.

The doctor was solitary by nature, took quicker to fucking than dating (still took so quickly to fucking), had taken very few people to bed and less heart over the course of his years - a little mess of contradictions, since Chilton was so keen to shun those he didn’t think worthy, and yet it made perfect sense all at once. It had taken one night - their first date - for Hannibal to completely understand the loneliness that permeated Chilton’s life, and that was what made him so easy. Men like Chilton see themselves as guarded, but it only takes a little love - or something that looks like it - to pry them apart.

“Frederick,” Hannibal says, and gets a just-interested “Mhm?” as Chilton chases his lips for another kiss, his hand on the back of Hannibal’s neck, thumb running against his hairline. “Does Will Graham know about us?”

Fishing for information about Will is the point of this. Anything else he gets about Will - or in general - is just additional perks. Chilton leans his head back against the arm of the couch (they’ve slid down, Chilton’s inner thigh pressed up against Hannibal’s outer) and says, “Yes, of course he does. He says he can see your mark clinging to me like a thick fog.”

“That may be another reason he doesn’t speak to you,” Hannibal says, voicing it like a confession. “If he sees you as belonging to me.” He doesn’t miss the slight flare of Chilton’s nostrils, the slow, interested blink; the good doctor had put that thought away in his mind for another day, it seemed, resisting the urge to comment on it now.

He kissed Hannibal instead, urging their bodies closer, canting his hips up against Hannibal’s and groaning softly. “Sometimes he looks at me like he can smell you on me.” A pause, where Chilton put his head back on the arm again and considered his words. “Can you?”

Hannibal put his hands on Chilton, fingers snaking up his shirt, lowering his mouth to the hollow at the base of his throat, sucking red marks that would fade, scraping his teeth against the lump in his throat and inhaling deeply. “I can smell your cologne,” he says, “and that you took a shower this morning.” He tongues at Chilton’s pulse point, feeling it throb faster. Under the pinch of cologne and a growing tang of sweat underneath he just tastes clean, like soap and water and skin. He bites across his pulse, threatening, not enough to hurt, and then kisses, and inhales again. “And I can smell myself, yes.”

“Oh, fuck,” Chilton moans, breathing out sharply, grinding his hips up eagerly. Hannibal thinks about telling Chilton how he can smell the sharp, salted sweetness of how turned on he is; he vocalises when he wants Hannibal to fuck him but he never really has to, all those pheromones pouring off him, wanting so badly.

Hannibal kisses him too-sweetly and Chilton stiffens up under him immediately, grasping at his shoulders. His lips are all pink, and he wets them before saying, “Hannibal?”

“I’m sorry, Frederick.” He isn’t. “I have to get up rather early in the morning. So do you.” He does. They do. He sees the disappointment crash behind Chilton’s eyes, watches the lump in his throat bob as he swallows noisily.

“Hannibal, please,” he says, somewhere between arrogant and begging. He’s too breathless to really pull off the former, even if he weren’t so weak that the latter comes naturally once he’s compromised by Hannibal.

Hannibal would like to fuck him. But he likes this, too, Chilton’s panic and desperation easing into his bloodstream. He sits up and his shadow falls away, the dim lights in the room falling across Chilton’s figure. He’s evidently hard, his chest rising and falling heavily, and pushing himself up onto his elbows and looking thoroughly put out. He seems lost for words, like he can’t quite believe Hannibal would work him up so much and then not follow through.

“I want to take my time with you,” Hannibal placates, but it doesn’t work, because it’s not meant to.

“You can take your time with me whenever you want,” Chilton responds, squirming a little where he’s sat. He’s petulant, but Hannibal knows he won’t argue the point; he’s not stupid, after all, he likes Hannibal.

Hannibal smiles apologetically and brings himself over Chilton again, kissing him once more. “I underestimated the time. I’m sorry.” Then he promises, “I’ll make up for it tomorrow evening.” Chilton’s breath hitches. “Properly; in bed.” He nudges his nose against Chilton’s. “I will make you come so hard that you forget I did this.”

Chilton’s eyelids flutter; he breathes in, catching his composure before it flees. “I’d like to come now,” he says resentfully, but as Hannibal stands up and holds out a hand to help him, he gets up anyway.

“Patience,” Hannibal instructs.


	6. Chapter 6

As Hannibal strokes his fingers across the length of his scar, Chilton remembers how frightening it was when Hannibal ripped his stitches; for their first sexual encounter it should've been off putting but somehow it wasn't. Somehow it felt good the more he looked back at it, remembered coming in spite of all that pain, the fear that he might be seriously hurt and through it all, Hannibal's voice above the clamour, reaching through to him, and the touch of his hand.

Chilton had put the whole thing down to them being drunk and overzealous - that was the word Hannibal used, wasn’t it - but it had clicked something in him, turned a cog he didn’t know was there, ruined him a little bit.

He lays his hand on top of Hannibal's and presses down on it, encouraging him. Hannibal gives him this questioning look and Chilton knows he has to say it, is humiliated but he says it: “It hurts when you press it.” A pause. “Please press it." 

“You want me to hurt you, Frederick?" Hannibal sounds surprised. He presses down just enough to get a twinge of pain going, experimental, and Chilton hisses out, “Oh, yes.” 

“Please fuck me," he adds, voice breathless and quiet. “Like this.” 

Was that pride he saw in Hannibal’s eyes? 

Whatever it was, it was gone when Hannibal kissed him.


	7. Chapter 7

In a fact not disclosed to many, Chilton is Cuban on his mother’s side. He grew up in the vast emptiness of Virginia because she loved a lawyer she would leave everything for; so Chilton spoke Spanish and English in equal measure at first, even weighing heavier into Spanish when his extended family would come knocking - but there was less reason to speak it as he got older, with a pitiful Latino population in the state. He moved out. Went to college. Got spottier and spottier with Spanish as it became more important to remember medical jargon than his second language.

So it was intimidating to learn that Hannibal spoke several languages, Spanish included. And a little thrilling, in the most oddly banal way. He found out completely on accident; walked in on a phone call where the man was speaking tongues and stopped in the doorway, waited quietly until Hannibal was done with wide eyes, and then said, “Uhh, qué bolá?”

Hannibal had smiled and put the phone down and answered gently with, “Buenos tardes, Frederick.”

“I didn’t know you spoke Spanish.”

“Ah, hablo muy poco español.” 

He laughed, a little incredulous, a noise that hissed against his teeth. “Qué guayaba, Hannibal, you’re fluent.”

“Estoy apreniendo. I don’t particularly have a good grasp on regional Spanish.”

“Uh-huh. I’m sure that’s a big problem for you. Why has this never come up before?” There was something in hearing his partner speak the language he grew up having talks with his mother in that tugged at his heartstrings, brought forth memories; he could smell mown grass and hear his cousins shouting at him. Some straight from Cuba, some from Florida - he was the only one in his extended family who wound up way out in the sticks.

“I wasn’t sure how important your background was to you,” Hannbial admitted. “Whether you would find any attempts to communicate in Spanish to be token or trivial was beyond my estimation.”

Chilton stuffed his hands in his pockets, strolling across the gap of the room and then saying, “Actually, I’m mostly worried that you speak it better than me.”

“To use an old phrase, it’s like riding a bicycle. I’m sure if you spoke it more often that you would become as fluent as when you were young.” Hannibal leaned over his desk, politely shutting books, shutting up shop - then he said, “You may even find yourself correcting my Spanish.”

“I doubt that,” Chilton said, and then told Hannibal the seven ways he’d like to get fucked in Spanish. It was a productive evening. Chilton thinks the only English word they exchanged for the rest of the night was on a particularly good thrust that had him whimpering “Fuck!” into the pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a great respect for the fact that Raul is a first-generation Cuban American. Consequently, it's not something I'm willing to leave out of his portrayal of Chilton - I apologise if anyone disagrees with this perspective.


	8. Chapter 8

Hannibal’s blood is up when Chilton stops letting him see Will. In the privacy of his office he explains how Will wanted an exclusive focus on his care, to have a sole psychiatrist, and with the desk creating a barricade between them that feels miles wide when Hannibal has his eyes on the pulse flickering in Chilton’s throat, the psychiatrist taps his fingers irritably on the desk and says, “You should have told me you were driving Will, Hannibal.”

Hannibal stays silent, surprised by the outburst. Chilton’s brow is furrowed, his walls dropped now they’re out of earshot of anyone else, his eyes wide and his mouth tight. “There were other people in the room when Will came up with that little gem. If I’d known I could’ve handled this different, I could’ve, _done something_. Instead I’m playing with protocol and thinking about firing a nurse.”

Hannibal can feel an argument brimming beneath Chilton’s collar. He’s almost tempted to poke at it. Instead he relents, knowing the quickest way to Chilton’s favour is through his ego: “You’re right. I apologise.”

Four words and Chilton deflates, leaning back in his chair and fidgeting, as he is wont to do. He breathes out. “What’s done is done, I suppose.” He eyes Hannibal carefully. “I don’t understand why you kept this from me. Just last week, we were talking about psychic driving over lunch. That would’ve been a good time to bring it up.”

Hannibal is somewhere in the sweet spot between wanting to kill Chilton and being in awe of his sheer dedication to him. How quickly he has imprinted on Hannibal, like a child to a mother; it’s impressive, but it has not stayed his tongue. And yet… Chiton is  _worried_ , Hannibal realises; it is the true source of his irritation. “I admit I wasn’t anticipating that Will would become receptive to treatment, Frederick. If I had thought it would become an issue I would have told you. I didn’t think it was important.”

Chilton is silent, and then he says, “The saving grace is that Will Graham is the least credible witness possible, especially to his own defence. When the re-trial starts, if he tries to spin his atrocities onto you,” a pause, then a slightly flat, “I won’t let him.”

Hannibal wonders if Chilton thinks this is love. He rewards good behaviour by crossing to the other side of the desk and kissing Chilton on his forehead.

Chilton's exhale is audible; he curls his fingers around Hannibal's wrist and leans towards him.


	9. Chapter 9

Chilton is not told about Hannibal’s run-in with Matthew Brown until Jack Crawford calls him to tell him he shot and arrested one of his employees; this doesn’t happen for three days, because Chilton’s feelings are very, very low on the priority list of just about anyone. When this happens, Chilton turns up on Hannibal’s doorstep, cheeks pink from the cold and an angry shine in his eyes. Not angry at Hannibal, though.

“I didn’t know this would happen, I am so, _sorry_ ,” and that’s about the only coherent thing that Hannibal can wrestle out of the long winded babbling that Chilton subjects him to, and when he’s calmed down a little, he stops pacing the length of Hannibal’s office and accepts whisky and stares at the ligature marks around Hannibal’s throat with his head cocked to the side. “Hannibal, I,” he starts, then thinks better of it, and swallows the entire glassful of liquid and shudders with the burn.

“This makes two terrible incidents from my hospital,” Chilton laments later.

“Well,” Hannibal says, “Now our scars match.” He takes Chilton’s hands in his and absently listens to the unhappy pace of his breathing. Chilton has long fingers, hands that are slender but impressive against his wrists; but he doesn’t take good care of his nails, and so the charm in the way the bones press up against his skin is lost.

“You nearly died,” and Hannibal can hear the scope of loss that Chilton is trying to repress. So lonely a man, he would collapse like a dying star if he were to lose the thing he loved. To heal him of his fears, to assure him that he is going nowhere, Hannibal bequeaths him a lingering kiss.

Tasting fear in Chilton’s breath, Hannibal thinks about how satisfying it will be to rip the loss out of his chest and leave a wound, when the time comes.


	10. Chapter 10

Hannibal feels distinctly irritated that Chilton is starting to suspect him.

Chilton tries to keep quiet about it, of course, but he withdraws too much; stops talking about Will, avoids mentioning the Chesapeake Ripper, stops complaining about the fact he can’t eat meat anymore. Hannibal feels he should’ve anticipated it, really; but the honest truth is that Will Graham still finds ways to surprise him, and so Hannibal had not put as tight a leash on his pet as he should’ve. Like any relaxed owner, Hannibal had not thought that the dog might ever growl at him.

These suspicions, of course, conflict greatly with the fact that Chilton is in love with him. He suspects him but not enough to stay away; thinks he fits the profile he read out in court (what an enamoured, beautiful depiction that was, and one day Hannibal will reward Chilton for so correctly describing him) but also can’t find it within himself to truly see a monster lurking under the expanse of Hannibal’s skin.

Hannibal does not love Chilton, but he loves rearranging his brain. Perhaps he’ll do it literally someday, make a visual representation of what he’s done to his mind; forget psychic driving, love is a far purer means of manipulation, to shape someone to your own whims and thoughts. He knew that Chilton came harder if Hannibal hurt him now; it was amazing what burst stitches and a drunken orgasm could wring out of a man.

He knew that Chilton would rather spend his nights at Hannibal’s than alone at home; he knows that Chilton is ashamed of his empty little house, of his empty fridge, the bottles of wine. He knew that Hannibal’s presence made Chilton want to be a better man, even if he could never shake the resentment he felt for the rungs of psychiatric accomplishments that Chilton would never be able to climb.

Evidently Hannibal had not accomplished as much as he thought, but he knew he could drag Chilton back under his influence. He was full of folly, so easy to drag about. That was what Will Graham knew also: that was how Will was trying to turn Chilton against him.

Evidently Will Graham could not get enough of the blood on his hands. Hannibal stares at the back of Chilton’s head and knows how easy it would be to kill him, because Chilton doubts, but with his heart in Hannibal’s hands he will always sway to trust. Hannibal couldn’t decide if Will would take the burden of Chilton’s death to heart or not.

Likely he would bear it as only another reason to parade himself as a martyr.

Hannibal would like to put this to the test but Chilton’s usefulness is not at an end, nor would it be wise to kill him whilst there were so many eyes in his direction. To kill his own lover would so directly expose him. There were ways around it, but Hannibal could see the reward in waiting.

Hannibal works out his frustrations in other ways. Things already known: Chilton loves him, Chilton enjoys pain, Chilton is putty in his hands. Things that can Hannibal safely predicts from this: he can push things further to bring Chilton back under his control. 

He loves the way his body just cracks and caves under Hannibal’s pressure.

Hannibal is ungentle when he fucks Chilton now, each thrust hard and dominating; there’s a time to be kind and slow and a time to be rough, like this, leaving his scent all over Chilton, reaffirming ownership. He hopes Chilton can feel what he’s communicating here; _why would I be here fucking you if I were the Chesapeake Ripper?_

The way Chilton whimpers and balls his fists in the sheet suggests he understands. Hannibal covers him with his body, skin on skin, sheets rucked up around them. Just about the only thing still in place is the pillow under Chilton’s head, and when he moans he tips his head back against it, exposing the length of his soft throat.

Hannibal lays a hand lovingly against it, kisses against what his hand doesn’t cover. Chilton just groans, rocks his hips up towards every thrust, his eyes hazy in arousal. Hannibal doesn’t touch his cock though, hard and neglected between their bodies. He’ll take him to the brink like this, like he has before, but this won’t be like the other times where he just lets Chilton come, all gasps and shudders, falling apart in his hands.

He gets all breathy when he’s approaching the edge, Hannibal’s name falling off his tongue every exhale, and Hannibal takes the cue: he slows his thrusts to a maddening, grinding roll, pushing his cock into Chilton at a pace that makes him groan in frustration, and then he kisses Chilton as he smooths both hands against his throat and starts to press down.

Chilton struggles immediately, gasping and arching, his hands scraping at Hannibal’s wrists (they sting against the still-healing wounds there), but he soothes when Hannibal kisses him again, when Hannibal promises, “I’m not going to hurt you, Frederick.”

It is a lie he has told before and will tell again. Chilton probably knows the lie but interprets it as he should, in that no meaningless harm will come to him - Chilton has so far always gotten a good orgasm out of pain, and Hannibal in turn gets to see what it looks like to dim the life in someone’s eyes and know they’re getting off on it. There is a complete and utter control in this, a sheer dominance that Hannibal compares to the first time he performed emergency heart surgery.

He wishes he could talk Chilton through this. Exert it all further. Tell him that the feeling he’s getting as Hannibal fucks him into submission at the same time as cutting off his air supply is hypoxia, that the lucid, heady state he’s hurtling towards is part of that. It’s the lack of oxygen getting past Hannibal’s hands. All the rich blood in his arteries has been stoppered.

Chilton can’t moan properly anymore, not like this. His mouth is just open, gasping, his eyes rolling. Hannibal can feel the burn low in his own stomach, that building sensation, creeping him towards the brink, feels the glow of arousal beneath the surface of his skin. Hannibal wishes so badly he could do this to Will, but then, Will would never be as pliant as this.

When Chilton comes he grips Hannibal’s wrists tight, every muscle in his body straining. Hannibal squeezes his hands a final time then lets go, and Chilton groans and shudders, coughing but still reeling.

Hannibal comes watching the white bloom of his handprints fade, digging his fingers into Chilton’s thighs to compensate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd really just like to say that I very much appreciate the comments and kudos. I'm horrible at getting back to people, but I read these things, and I love hearing them. Thanks for sticking with me so far on this little fucked up trip.


	11. Chapter 11

Chilton pulls on the black t-shirt, his hair still damp; he grabs the towel by his feet and ruffles his hair, and he calls to where he knows Will is in the next room. “This is your fault, you know.”

He steps out barefoot and Will’s arms are folded, incredulous eyebrows raised. “It’s my fault that Hannibal Lecter set you up for murder?”

Chilton pauses, fiddling with the edge of his shirt before nodding emphatically. “A month ago I was sleeping in his bed.” Will’s mouth twists and Chilton resists gesturing irritably at him. “I didn’t suspect him. For once in my life - “

“If you’re going to tell me how Hannibal made you happy I’d rather you,” Will pauses for a long inhale, “didn’t.” Will tips his chin down. “He was lying to you, Frederick. Using you to get to me.”

Chilton would tell Will that he has an inflated sense of self importance but Hannibal has just framed him for murder and Chilton can’t really tell him that he’s wrong. Chilton sucks a breath in, sour. “Don’t worry, Will, I won’t regale you with stories of my torrid love affair with the Chesapeake Ripper. But if you had never tried to appeal to my ego, made me believe you then I wouldn’t be in this position.” He’s flinging blame about like monkeys fling poop, he’s aware, but his heart is hammering under his tongue, so strong and alien that he feels like the pulse doesn’t belong to him. This cannot be his life.

“Hannibal appealed to your ego too.”

“Au contraire, Will, he was the only person I ever let chastise me.” Chilton sits down on a chair, socks in his hands, and there, for a moment, he deflates, the weight of all this bullshit coming down heavily on his shoulders. “He tore my stitches once.”

Will is silent. Chilton flickers his eyes over to him unhappily. Chilton might have briefly championed his cause and Will might be grateful that _someone_ believed him, but friends they are not. He won’t help Chilton, and he certainly won’t sympathise. So softly, Chilton asks, “Have you noticed that everyone who believes you dies or has to leave? How do you sleep at night when you’re collecting as much blood as Hannibal."

Will answers, voice low and even, “I don’t.”

Chilton pulls his socks on. “Good.”

Silence passes, and Will suddenly says, “Did you really _love_ him?” He says it like love is some great mystery, or like maybe there’s just a mystery in how anyone could love Hannibal Lecter.

Chilton wants to say something witty or cutting or deflective but instead he just sadly and sorely admits, “Yes.” He hadn’t even said that to Hannibal, never actually planned to. It’s what makes this sting. Not just the fact that Chilton likes being alive more than he likes being right, or even the fact that Chilton hates humiliation (which is why patients and rival psychiatrists try to dole it out in spades). 

Hannibal may as well have cut him open sternum over stomach, Gideon 2.0, the real Ripper. He could’ve gone over all Chilton’s old scars and made a show of him in his home. That’s how it feels, an emotional disembowelment; Chilton wasn’t enough of a threat to kill, but just enough to insult, to ruin his life, to make him pay for pride and lust and… sloth, probably sloth. And love.

Chilton stands up and pulls on another shirt, buttoning up. It’s cold outside. Will is looking at him strangely. “Don’t look at me like you’ve never - “

“Fallen in love with a serial killer? Can’t say that I have.”

Chilton bites the insides of his cheek until he can taste blood. He stops, shoes in his hands, and stares at the backs of his hands. “God, it was you all along, wasn’t it? You were always the thing he wanted. Not me.” He bitterly pulls on his shoes, laces them, straightens up. "Not once."

Will’s all silent again, which is as good as a yes. Chilton starts packing his bag.


End file.
